Red Dead Reflection
by tango645
Summary: A story about Jack Marston after his encounter with Edgar Ross at Rio del Toro. Not only will he experience adventures with new  and old  faces, but he will discover the consequences of his family name as he travels throughout New Austin.
1. Chapter 1

The large cotton-knit bag hit the countertop with a soft thump. Tucked inside was an assortment of animal pelts ranging from wolves to hawks. Most of them were still fresh and came packaged with an awful stench of blood. The bag's owner peered around the shop, wondering why the clerk was not watching his goods. The light from the noon-time sun shone through the wide windows and into the store, showing off every speck of dust and dirt. A small, silver bell sat on one side of the counter, of which the man took notice. He stretched his arm towards the device, cupped his palm, and rang.

Moments later, a limping, wrinkly old man stepped out from a doorway in the corner of the store, which was not much smaller than your average saloon. He wore a white apron around his clothes that hung down below his knees. His hair was pure white and frilly while his head was full of dimples and freckles. He turned his head towards the counter and stared at his solitary customer with a puzzling gaze. He pushed up his spectacles from the tip of his nose and cocked his head sideways.

"Can I help you, son?" He called out.

The man at the counter took half a step closer towards the clerk and lifted his stare from the bag.

"I'm looking to trade, sir. I was wondering if you'd be interested in some animal skins," Replied the newcomer as he placed his hand on the bag. "I'm new in these parts and in need of some supplies."

The clerk paused for a moment, seemingly lost in thought, then quickly made his way over to the counter.

"Well now, you _are_ a new face. What's yer name, son?" The clerk asked, puzzled.

"The name's Jack. Jack Marston," he exclaimed with pride. "Now if you don't mind, sir, I'd like to hurry this up."

"Marston, huh? Sounds familiar, but I can't put my finger on it," said the shop keep, scratching his scalp. "Anyway, I'd be glad to help ya. What have you got?"

Jack pushed the bag towards the far edge of the counter and untied the knot around the opening. The store owner pulled the rope away, making the small hole wider. He peered inside, but quickly threw his head back at the stench of dead carcass and bloodstained fur.

"Sorry, sir. I didn't have time to wash 'em."

The clerk waved his hand and dismissed the man's apology. The stink of dead animal surely wasn't something new to him. Again, he peered into the bag, pulling out individual skins and pelts while determining a value for each one, likely based on size, quality, and the breed of its former owner.

"Well you've certainly got yourself a nice collection, boy. I'd say that all together, they're worth about twenty-five dollars. Might have been a bit more, but now I gotta wash 'em myself, ya see."

The old man, still watching the furs, slowly looked up towards Jack's face. He could tell his customer was displeased with his offer, but kept a wide smirk on his face.

Jack indeed looked disgruntled. He tugged at the brim of his hat and pushed his upper body closer to the counter.

"Twenty-five? That's it? Those rabbit furs alone are worth fifteen!"

"Take it or leave it, son. But you won't find a better offer around here."

The clerk cleared his throat and coughed, finishing his statement by spitting at the ground. Marston, who knew the clerk was right, agreed to his terms. The clerk smiled and tied the rope around the bag once more. He lifted the furs from the counter and placed them on the floor nearby. He patted his hands together and looked back up towards Jack.

"Now, what do you need?"

"Ammo. Twenty-two and a forty-five. And packed rations. Corn, potatoes, anything like that."

The clerk turned towards the shelves behind him and started looking over his wares. It took a minute, but he eventually found enough and placed several small boxes and cans on the counter.

"Here we go, this should make up the value of those furs. Some ammo, a tin of corn, a bag of bread, some eggs, apples, and potatoes." The clerk counted up some numbers in his head, just to be sure. "Anything else, friend?"

Jack stared at the items on the counter and made sure that was all he needed.

"Naw, that about does it." He took a pack off his shoulder, opened it, and quickly threw his new wares inside. "Thank you, sir. Have yourself a good one." Jack pulled the bag over his shoulder and turned towards the exit.

"Same to you son," replied the clerk, still holding onto his grin. "And welcome to Armadillo."


	2. Chapter 2

The dust and sand from Armadillo's main road flew about wildly as Jack walked westward toward the train station. A strong gust surged from behind, causing his leather duster jacket to wave unevenly and his hat to loosen and nearly soar away. He quickly tugged down on the brim, tightening its grip around his head, and threw his hands into his pockets. Searching his coat, he felt around for a clump of cash and counted up its value. He sighed in relief realizing he had enough for a train ticket. It didn't matter where it was headed, as long as it was far away from Blackwater.

"One for Benedict Point," muttered Jack as he placed the crumpled money on the booth counter.

The operator quickly and quietly counted it, placed it into a container full of other bills, ripped a ticket from a reel, and handed it to Jack. The young cowboy pocketed the paper and walked back outside into the hot sun. He could feel the cool sweat around his neck and scalp, and decided to head into the nearby saloon.

Pushing the swinging doors open, Jack saw that the tavern was quite busy for the mid-afternoon. He glanced around the main room, checking for any familiar faces. The last thing he needed was for someone from Blackwater recognizing him. With his safety reassured, he settled down atop one of the stools by the bar and placed his hat on the counter in front of him. The barman, who had seen Jack enter, briskly walked over to him smiled as he leaned on the bar top.

"What'll it be, boy?" He snapped, almost cheerfully.

With his eyes closed and head facing down at the bar, Jack replied with "Half-glass of whisky."

The barkeep turned to fix the drink as Jack sank deep into thought. _They probably found Ross already. Got word out to Blackwater. Ross' wife could easily give a description of me. They'll have me on record. Know where I headed. Know where I'm going. Just need to keep moving is all._

Jack's train of thought suddenly halted as a small glass slammed on the table. He opened his eyes to the whisky and the barkeep's empty hand. Jack reached into his pocket, pulled out the rest of his change, and emptied it into the bartender's hand.

"Thank you kindly, sir. Enjoy," muttered the barkeep as he walked towards the other end of the bar.

Jack grasped the glass and took a long gulp as his eyes closed again. He placed the drink back on the counter and rubbed his forehead. As he was about to lift the glass once more, a shadow appeared on the bar next to him. He cocked his head to the side to get a glimpse.

"Are you gonna finish that?" chuckled a booming voice, as a mysterious hand leapt out and grabbed the glass away from Jack. He turned fully now to see the bully. The man laughed as he threw the rest of Jack's whiskey down his throat and tossed the empty glass back to Jack, who jumped to catch it.

The overgrown ruffian belched and grinned. "You must be new around here. Let me tell ya, Armadillo's got one important rule – you gotta share. So, thanks for sharing."

The man turned to one of the tables towards the rear of the saloon and began laughing. A group of men at the table also joined in the fun.

The man began to turn around to thank Jack one more time for his hospitality, but a whizzing crash thundered throughout the saloon as the tough guy fell to the floor, along with bits of glass from Jack's cup. The man was unconscious and his head started bleeding, but everyone in the bar was silent, just staring at the newcomer. Jack checked his hands and noticed some small scrapes and cuts starting to show red, but they would heal.

He looked up at the crowd of people, distinctly noticing the bully's friends angrily eyeing him.

"Anyone else wanna share?" he sputtered.

Outside, off in the distance, a soft whistle was heard. The train was nearing Armadillo, and Jack couldn't afford to miss it.

The other ruffians at the table started making their way towards Jack, readying weapons. While the other common folk rapidly drifted out of the saloon and into the streets. However, before Jack could prepare himself, the bartender pulled a large shotgun from underneath the bar, pointing frantically at Jack, then the men, then Jack again.

"If you all gonna start something, you take it outside, ya hear?"

Jack nodded and hastily made his way outside. Another whistle was blown, much louder now, and Jack turned his head to look down the tracks. Sure enough, the train was very close. Jack kept a fast pace as he attempted to head for the station, but as soon as he made it to the road, one of the men jumped him and pulled him to the ground.

Jack rolled to face his opponent, and threw a fist right into the man's cheek. Jack jumped to his feet, his challenger still on his knees, and pulled out his six-shooter, pointing it directly at the man. The brawler, noticing the gun, raised his hands as he stood back on his feet.

"Gimme one good reason," spouted Jack, wiping the dirt from his face.

The train was very close this time as another whistle sounded. The steam from the engines and the squeak of the wheels could be heard, and Jack knew he was running out of time.

"I can't mister, but my friend can," he chuckled lightly.

Behind Jack, the other men stood smiling, one of them pulling back a revolver's hammer. He turned to face his newest enemy, keeping his pistol trained on its target. The opposing gunman took a step forward, and spit at Jack's feet.

"How about it, partner? Think you got a faster finger than me?" The man shouted playfully.

Jack slowly pulled his revolver back into his holster, the other gunman following suit.

"Why don't we find out?" Jack replied.

The two walked carefully towards the center of the road, approximately fifteen paces apart. Silence filled Armadillo's main street as the two duelers prepared for their moment. Sweat trickling down each head, stretching their fingers beside their six-shooters. Each anxious to take a shot, but only the warm, calm air filled the void.

The train had almost come to a stop at the Armadillo station and a last plume of steam emitted from the engines. A few moments later, the arrival whistle was sounded, adding to Jack's already high distress.

Somewhere in the crowd of onlookers that lined the street, the silence was finally interrupted by a loud yell:

"DRAW!"

Jack felt time nearly slow to a stop. Every fraction of a second felt like minutes. He watched as his opponent carelessly attempted to draw his gun, but Jack's motion was flawless: He pulled the gun from his side, threw the hammer back to its loaded position, aimed for the man's chest, and pulled tightly on the trigger. The other gunman had no chance.

Jack felt the strange haze of reality slip out of his perception as the loud, solitary thunder from his revolver was heard. His adversary flew backward and hit the dirt road with a hard thump. The crowd's eyes were piercing through Jack as he placed the gun back into its holster. The other brawlers caught a gaze of dissent from Jack, causing them to run like scared animals into one of Aramdillo's alleys. A few moments passed as the crowd began to disperse. A few of the spectators ran over to the dead body and began picking through its belongings.

Jack headed towards the station, hoping not to provoke any more fights with his audience. However, blank stares were all that he received. What was left of the crowd simply watched as Jack stepped up onto the boarding platform, moved into the train car, and took a seat.

Armadillo would carry on, none the wiser to who the mystery man was. He had left his mark, however insignificant or forgetful it was. People might not have known he was a Marston, but they surely would remember his face.

The train's whistle sounded twice in quick succession as the engines started up again. More steam pillowed from the numerous valves along the side and the wheels slowly began to turn. Dusk was approaching and Jack was beginning to feel tired. It was a long ride to Benedict Point, and he needed to rest. He pulled the brim of his hat low and folded his arms. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed as he gently fell asleep.


End file.
